Not a Freak
by sherlockian4evr
Summary: Sally calls Sherlock a freak at the worst possible moment... Beta read by Sherlock1110. Trigger warning: A toddler is the victim of a murder. In a bit of shock, Sherlock deduces her homelife. Nothing graphic, but it could be disturbing to some.
1. Chapter 1

For once, Sherlock had taken John's advice and phoned ahead to Lestrade with the address of the kidnapper. The Yarders had arrived just after the detective and the doctor. It hadn't made a difference.

The toddler's broken body lay forlornly on the pale green tiles. Sherlock's face was impassive as he took in the sight.

"Look at him, he doesn't feel anything. He's a freak, just like I've always said." Donovan was speaking not-so-quietly to another officer.

The detective's face twitched slightly. If John hadn't been looking directly at Sherlock, he would have missed it. He took a step towards Donovan, his hands fisted tightly.

Luckily, Lestrade noticed and placed himself between John and the oblivious Sally. "Shut it! All of you, out. Now." The DI caught John's eye and gave a meaningful glance in Sherlock's direction as he ushered everyone from the room. He couldn't leave them alone, of course, that would jeopardize the crime scene, so he occupied himself with examining the contents of a table across the room.

"You alright?" John's soft voice was full of concern.

Sherlock gave him a scathing look. "I'm fine."

The doctor sighed. He knew the next few days would be a nightmare; the detective never handled it well when he was too late to save a victim. That this victim was a child; a toddler, only made it worse. John wanted to shake the man, tell him that it wasn't his fault, that it was okay to show emotion, it was okay to care. He didn't do any of those things, of course. "Right." John addressed the DI. "Can we get out of here?"

Greg understood everything that John was saying beneath the question. Like the doctor, he knew Sherlock better than the detective knew himself when it came to matters of sentiment. "Yeah. I'll need your statements, but they can wait until a better time."

John nodded his thanks and urged the detective from the room. As they emerged into the living room, all eyes turned on them.

Donovan started making snide remarks to Anderson regarding Sherlock's lack of reaction to the toddler's death. "...cold blooded freak. He just looked at her and didn't care. That one's..."

Sherlock stopped where he stood, a slow tremble taking over his frame. Sally droned on, oblivious to the effect her words were having.

John tried to get the detective moving again with a little push to the small of his back. Instead of walking forward, he turned to face the doctor. "Did you see her, John?" Sherlock's face was even more pale than usual.

"Who? Donovan?"

The detective shook his head. "No, the girl. Karen. Karen Amelia Jones, three years four months old. Her favorite food was chocolate biscuits which she still sucked though she has a mouth full of teeth. She liked apple juice. Karen wasn't fond of dolls, per se, but she liked stuffed animals. Her favourite was a pink elephant whose trunk was worn from when she was teething. Her mother read to her each night and rocked her before putting her down to sleep." Sherlock turned pleading eyes on John. "Why were we too late? We shouldn't have been too late."

The Yarders were stunned at Sherlock's display. Most had their gazes fixed on the detective but there were a number who were glaring at Donovan.

"Get him home. And call me if, you know…" Lestrade's meaning was clear, he was worried about drugs, but John wouldn't be letting Sherlock out of his sight any time soon.

Not giving a damn what the Yarders thought, John insinuated his arm around Sherlock's waist. "Come on, Love, let's get you home." This time, Sherlock responded to his gentle push and began walking.

Once outside, it fell to John to hail a cab. Consequently, they were forced to wait some time in the cold. The doctor shuffled where he stood trying to keep warm. Sherlock stood woodenly, lost in his own thoughts. At last, they were picked up and, with a few exchanged words with the cabbie, were off to 221B.

Sherlock had regained his composure and had put in place his customary mask of indifference. John didn't force a conversation, he just placed his hand, palm up, on the seat next to the detective's leg. Sherlock continued to gaze out the window as he twined his fingers with John's and simply held on tight.

Upon reaching home they climbed wordlessly out of the cab, John paying as he fumbled for his keys. In short order they were inside, divested of scarves and coats, and they were waiting for the tea to brew.

Sherlock was standing in front of the window, his hands stroking the case of his violin but there was a hesitation about his movements. It was if he longed to play but feared the painful strains of music that he would inevitably pull from the instrument.

John walked up behind the detective and wrapped his arms around the taller man, letting his head fall against Sherlock's back.

The detective's hands stilled on the violin case. "I'm not what they say I am." Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself. Before John could reply, the detective continued. "Idiots. What good is there in showing pain, weakness, sentiment? Tell me, John, would it be advantageous to put on a display at every crime scene? To weep and mourn? To bemoan the injustices of the world?"

The doctor turned Sherlock around. "No, Sherlock. You're right, they're idiots. But you already know that." The detective was avoiding his gaze so he reached up and turned Sherlock's face toward him. "Don't let what they say hurt you and don't hurt yourself." He pulled the taller man down for a kiss. "You're not a freak. I know it. Greg knows it. Everyone who really knows you knows it." He paused to let Sherlock absorb what he had said. "Now, I don't want you tearing yourself up over this case. There is nothing we could have done differently, nothing you could have done differently. Tell me you believe that. I need to hear you say it."

Sherlock swallowed and embraced John tightly. "I believe it." He didn't sound convincing so he tried again. "I believe it. There is nothing we could have done differently." This time he sounded more confident.

They stood there holding one another for several minutes. Sherlock gave a great sigh and nuzzled into John's shoulder. "The tea is ruined by now. You'll have to start over."

John huffed. "Forget the tea, it can wait." He pulled Sherlock towards the sofa, sat down, and patted the cushion next to him. Sherlock lay down, his head in the doctor's lap.

Before John, he would have had nightmares about a case gone wrong, a life ended because of his imagined inadequacies. Now his lover stood guard over him and kept the nightmares at bay. Safe in that knowledge, the detective closed his eyes and enjoyed the feeling of John carding his hand through his dark curls as he fell into slumber.


	2. Chapter 2

Sally watched Sherlock and John as they left the crime scene, a leaden weight in the pit of her stomach. There was a loud roaring in her ears so she barely heard Lestrade's rebuke. She steadfastly avoided the eyes of the other Yarders and made her way to the room where the toddler lay. Looking down at the little girl's body, she suddenly saw so much more than she had before.

Karen Amelia Jones. That's what he had said her name was. Sally hadn't even known that much. The child had only been "The Victim" or "The Jones Girl". She gave a shudder. All of the things that Sherlock had deduced about Karen would forever haunt her memory. Sally could picture her in her mother's arms, the beloved stuffed elephant clutched in Karen's hand.

Then there was the look on Sherlock's face when he had rattled off his deductions. That was another image that she would never forget. Against all previous evidence to the contrary, the man obviously _cared_. Sally considered for a moment. She knew that she had become inured to the cruelties that were perpetuated on a daily basis. Abruptly she realized, perhaps Sherlock even cared more than she did. After all, _she_ was the one callously attacking another human being instead of concentrating on the case and trying to bring closure to the grieving parents. Granted, Sally had barely considered Sherlock to be human before tonight, still…

As she considered her behaviour, Sally had to wonder just who was the freak?


End file.
